On the Road

The red rivers intersect and merge on the white page beneath my finger, calling to the red within my veins. I follow them a little absently, tracing my finger across miles no bigger than an elm bug. In my mind they are transformed; no longer red lines (whether curved or straight), but blinding ribbons of white furling ahead of me, smoking along behind; consuming me in the rhythm of the road. Each has its own siren song number; it is a delight to recognize old friends traveling in new places.

I am a faithful wanderer. A fugitive from my comfortable home. I seek safety from the mundane through something larger than myself. And I have joined the eternal Quest, unsure of what I am questing for. Not the end of the road, for real roads have no end I can find. Knowledge? Only of my frailty and ignorance, since there is always more road to know. I recognize my own limits through my love.

I am a jealous wanderer, having a passionate impatience for those who travel in front of me. Not for being in my way, but because they are having my experience before me. I meet people with curiosity, wanting to know what they have seen; knowing what they are about to see.

The center stripe reflects the joy of sunflowers, and I am free.